Revitalized
by lembas7
Summary: Africa would not allow him to die . . . . [Continuation of LXG. 'Most Dangerous Game' crossover.]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The characters and premise of 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen' belong to quite a few varied people. I'm not one of them.

**A/N:** Continuation of LXG, which I was supremely disappointed with. Rated for action, minor violence and swearing.

REVITALIZED

Browned, weathered fingers, curled with arthritis, scrabbled at the mound of dirt.

A life for a life - the debt was owed, and now, would be repaid. The old man

scattered his handful of earth over the warm flames of a brush-fire. Swift, unnatural clouds darkened the sky.

A strange, spicy smell wafted through the air, a smell that dove deep within the lungs and lodged there. Not the odor one would expect from grave-soil. It was cleansing and sharp upon the senses; pleasant, as the first warm rain in spring brought the vibrant scent of grass to creatures starved of scent by winter's chill.

All was in readiness.

Earth was the balm for its people's wounds, rain the giver of life. Fire of the soul, brought into harmony with the sweet, rejuvenating air. Rheumy eyes found the storm cycling overhead as the old man began to chant. Low and deep, the language of his people resonated over the plains and reaching the five individuals seeking shelter.

The companions walking away from the buried body of their friend stopped, momentarily, and glanced back. Varied and experienced as they were, the sight shocked them - and they froze.

The old man continued chanting, his voice gaining cadence and volume, until the primitive beat echoed over the golden grasses, more felt than heard. The woman who was staring in the direction of the grave absently noted the rhythm, much like that of a beating heart. The young man next to her jumped in shock as a bolt of lightning lanced from the heavens to strike the gun he had gently placed over the mound.

"Bloody hell," came a disembodied voice in his ear, and the young man started once more. Another man, standing almost a pace away, glanced at the Agent, his dark hair shaggily hanging down over his brow.

"Something is moving," the Doctor noted with a calmness and confidence new to him, gained during the past mission.

The earth was shaking slightly, the vibration and hum of life electrifying the air, making each breath a charged reaffirmation of existence.

The Indian man was the first to move, unsheathing his sword and walking toward the grave, his entire body unconsciously moving in rhythm with the pulse filling the air. Blue robes shone dark against the golden-brown plain, and his graceful, almost feline motion was soon mimicked by the others.

They gathered in a half-circle around the grave, each wondering, each silent. The shaman stood at the head, and the smell of ozone was almost overpowering. But each and every of the warriors ringed around their fallen companion's grave had attention only for the knife in the old man's hand.

He slashed the edge across his palm, and allowed several drops of ruby blood to fall onto the dark grave-soil. The crimson liquid was gently absorbed into the earth, and thunder shook the heavens. Rain fell, caressing the ground; bathing the earth and the six people on it. Lightning waltzed through the skies, and the shaking of the world flowed, _changed_, and grew stronger.

It was coming from the grave.

The five companions said nothing, and did not move. Even when it became apparent that the Earth was gently expelling something; pushing something upwards from where it rested, so lovingly cradled. Wide-eyes moments passed, moments of unasked questions and unnamed fears.

The object thrust from the depths of the dirt was not what any of them had expected.

The man had been stripped of age; it had been peeled away as unwanted clothing, leaving bare skin unlined, wiping the grey from his hair. The skies of Africa wept with joy, their tears bathing the son birthed anew from the land.

And from what had been, days, hours, _moments_ before, only a body, came breath. _Life._

His face was not that of the old, energetic hunter, but rather that of a man no more than twenty-seven. Africa had restored his life, gifting him with the youth always present within his soul, and returning him to the age he had been when he had saved the village and its shaman, so long ago.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, now five where there had once been seven, could only stare as one of its lost was returned to them. Alan Quatremain was alive, though unconscious still.

The old African sighed, a slight smile curling his lips. He looked down at the young man and said something in his language. The dark-haired head moved slightly, a frown forming on the unconscious brow. Rain soothed away those lines, leaving the strangely familiar face untroubled.

Almost as one, the five fixed their respective gazes upon the old man. But the shaman did not react to the strong scrutiny of the vampire, or the harsh, shocked stares of the men - including the invisible eyes trained unblinkingly upon him.

"Africa shall never let him die," the old man said, his English rough and heavily accented. "The earth cherishes him." And then he smiled, an expression of serene joy carved upon weathered features. He turned, and the plains-grasses opened a way before him. A gentle curtain of rain separated him from that place and time, before he returned to the heart of Africa, and disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor was the first to blink, ripping his gaze from the place where the shaman had been, and returning it to the man lying on the ground. His senses returned to him in a rush as he noted the shivering in the body before him. Worried, he pulled off his jacket and placed it over the naked flesh, concealing his friend's nudity and protecting him from the chill rain.

His abrupt movement seemed to jerk the others out of their passivity, and in moments they had lifted the unconscious man and were carrying him back to the house. Quatremain's home had been destroyed in a bomb blast, but there had been other buildings nearby; guest houses, and servants' quarters, though the people had deserted them not long ago.

The darkened skies continued to release an onslaught of rain, the clouds thundering and lightning flashing. Yet the storm was muted, almost gentle; nothing like the air-tearing crashes and blinding flashes of light that had accompanied Alan's . . . revival.

But he was still unconscious.

His friends gently cared for him, trying at the same time to regain control. Tom, having belatedly accepted his mentor's death, and actually having witnessed Quatremain's last breath, was locked in a tumult of feelings. Jekyll didn't need to know the boy well to read the shaky denial of hope in his every movement.

Skinner, whose presence was for once silent, was mostly untroubled with the strange turn of events. He'd processed it all with the swift but wary acceptance necessary for survival as a thief. It did not necessarily follow that acceptance preceded trust, however. The invisible resolved to bide his time; to discover if Alan had truly returned, or if this was just some farce. But more and more he was finding himself believing that when the man woke up, they would discover Alan within him. Though he barely knew what the word meant, he'd sensed something almost. . . miraculous, in the strange events they had witnessed.

Nemo's patience was vast as the oceans he claimed as home. Waiting was nothing new to him. So he would bide his time as the thief did, wait and see if the man who was now younger than him in all appearances would turn out to be the friend they all remembered. He had sought out solitude to pray to Kali, the goddess of death. He was yet waiting to see if it was actually his friend who had returned before thanking her for his reappearance in life.

As for Jekyll - once they had returned to the house, and he and Harker had taken the man into their charge. They had no time to wonder about what had happened. The two doctors were too busy, at first, caring for him. As Jekyll dried him down and dressed him, Harker carefully examined him. After half an hour, they had him clothed and in bed, and had determined that his unconsciousness was simply a deep sleep, from which he could wake at any time. It was best to let him do so on his own; which meant the League would continue to wait. There were no scars on his body, and as far as she could tell, Harker knew him to be hale. Jekyll also believed that they had gotten him inside and cared for before he could contract an illness, and his relief was almost palpable.

But now there was nothing for it but to wait.

The knife, flipping over and over in the corner of the room, was starting to get on his nerves.

"Would you stop that?" came an irritated voice. Tom was glaring at the direction of the invisible man, hand resting not-so-subtly near the pistol at his hip.

A snort greeted him. "No." The bladed edge caught light from the storm, flashing it into the room.

"It is less than wise to irritate one's companions in a time of stress."

Skinner backed off, wary of inciting Nemo's ire. The Captain had been remarkably calm, but Jekyll noted that the pages of the book in his lap had gone unturned for quite some time.

The silence lasted for only a moment.

"Do you think it's really him?"

A raspberry erupted from Skinner's corner. "Don't be daft. Who else could it be?" Jekyll knew bravado when he heard it.

"The realm of Kali is mysterious, and the whims of the goddess are not to be understood by humans," Nemo replied. "It is possible the Alan we knew is dead forever. It is possible that he has returned to us. Until he wakes, Kali holds her secrets."

Tom gave Nemo a wary look. "Right."

A smothered noise found its way to Jekyll's keen ears, originating from the invisible man. Whatever Skinner thought of that, he was keeping to himself. Probably for fear of Nemo's retribution.

Silence, uncomfortable and prickly, descended once more.

Jekyll couldn't stand it any longer. "I'll go see if Mina needs any help."

"With what?" he heard the low, invisible grumble as he left the room. The door didn't quite close fast enough to cut off the rest of Skinner's statement. "He's dead to the world."

At those words, Jekyll couldn't repress a shiver.


	3. Chapter 3

_He felt a surge of pride as the boy made the shot, and he heard the crack of the gun. The mission was over, despite the fact that it had been a phony directive, contrived by the enemy. But it had enabled him to meet some of the finest people he'd ever known - people he'd grown closer to in the short time of their work than anyone he'd ever met before. He felt a surge of happiness, pride - regret that he, at least, had to leave so soon._

And then the pain came, surging in a hot tide, and he opened his mouth, barely able to gasp out a few words before it overwhelmed him, and agonizing darkness encompassed the world . . .

Alan took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He blinked, focusing on a foreign ceiling, trying to figure out where he was, his mind working at top speed. He turned his head, looking around, and caught sight of Mina, dozing by the fire. Jekyll was sitting next to her, and he lowered his book at the sound of shifting weight.

He dropped the book onto a side table as he stood and walked across the room, saying quietly, "Mina, he's awake." Alan glanced at the two of them, as Mina jerked into wakefulness and followed Jekyll to the bedside.

Alan pushed himself into a sitting position, looking down to see his arms - tanned, yes, that was nothing new, but the skin was youthful, elastic, and his body was free of the aches he had begun to feel, pains that he knew were brought on by age. His glasses were no longer a necessity, as he could tell that his eyesight was as sharp as it had been in his youth.

"What happened?" he asked, and was startled into silence at the sound of his voice - the ever-present accent and depth of maturity could not mask the smoothness of the tone, which had disappeared into the gruffness of age with his son's death. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew without looking out the window that he was in Africa, and his last memories -

"The shaman wasn't speaking figuratively, and he didn't lie," Alan answered his own question. "I was dead."

His few words seemed to assure Jekyll that he was mostly unchanged, despite the life and youth granted to him. "Yes, you were. We brought you back to Africa, buried you - and then the shaman restored you to life." The doctor shrugged, a slight frown on his pale, somewhat delicate features. The angular face was drawn in thought, lips pursed. Mina simply raised a brow, and a smile curved her lips.

"It _is_ you," she said simply.

"And you thought otherwise?" Alan asked, reaching up to run a hand through his short, dark hair. From anyone else, that statement would have sounded arrogant. But Alan's confusion shone through.

"We didn't know if you had been restored to us unchanged," said Jekyll quietly, standing and sliding his hands into his pockets.

Mina opened a drawer, took out a square mirror, and passed it to Alan. Glancing at it, then her, he said, "I beg your pardon?"

She snorted. "Oh, no, you haven't changed."

Alan glanced at Jekyll, who was clearly trying to hide a smile. "Just what am I missing?" he asked, giving up all pretense of knowing what was going on.

Jekyll said, "Can you stand?"

Alan, as yet unsure himself, didn't say anything, but pushed the covers aside, finding himself clad in a loose pair of pants, and regained his footing.

Jekyll then took his arm and led him to a mirror. Alan stared for a moment at the man gazing out at him. The hair was only slightly longer than he usually kept it, and had the blackness of his youth. The skin was firm, the body young and muscled. The blue eyes were clear, but age beyond his apparent years shone out from the azure depths. The evidence of harshness of life, which Alan knew well, which he believed had been irrevocably imprinted on his soul and body was gone - from the flesh, at any rate. "Ah," he said simply after a moment, turning to look at them from where they were gazing at him, still absorbing the changes. "Well, I can see why you might be disturbed."

Mina said quietly, "I'll tell the others that you're awake."

Jekyll came over to him. "Are you all right?" He touched Alan's arm fleetingly.

Alan shrugged, walked over to a tray sitting on the endtable by his bed, and picked up the glass of water sitting there. "I'm fine - I feel better than I have in a long time." He took a long drink, rubbing his head slightly.

He looked over as the door opened. Skinner. A moment later, Tom burst into the room, followed at a more sedate pace by Nemo, and Harker lastly. Tom pulled up short at seeing him on his feet, and Nemo moved smoothly aside to avoid a collision.

After a few uncomfortable seconds of staring, Alan turned and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the others to find their seats.

"What exactly happened after I died?" he asked, and the question came out almost casually, to his surprise.

"We destroyed the facility," said Skinner. "The explosives pretty much took care o' the job, but when they was done I went in and finished up a few places that needed a little - extra help. KaBoom!" There was a smile in the invisible man's voice, which manifested from the space between Nemo and Jekyll.

"I killed Dorian," came Mina's voice, soft with hatred and laden with unmistakable danger. Alan raised a brow - but it was clear that he would not hear the rest of that story now.

Tom, seated on the floor, continued. "I checked Moriarty's body - he was definitely dead. Apparently he dropped the box containing Mina's blood, Hyde's serum, and Skinner's skin, and it fell through the ice. After bringing his body - and yours - " he broke off for a moment, trying to control the emotions running through him.

"We brought you and Moriarty back to Nautilus," continued Nemo, covering for Tom's silence. "I sent out some of my men to retrieve the box, and we destroyed the contents. Moriarty was buried at sea, and we brought you back to bury in Africa."

"Thank you," said Alan, inclining his head.

His words seemed to cause a rift in the conversation, and there was a deep silence that no one seemed able to end. Alan knew that only he could do so, and he took a deep breath, asking the only question he could, the only question he never wanted an answer to.

"I was dead," he said abruptly. "You buried me, I assume?" Everyone nodded, and he took a deep breath. "So how, exactly, did this happen?" he asked, using one hand to gesture at himself.

"It was - weird," said Tom, after searching for the right word for a moment, and failing.

Alan looked at him, brow raised. There was a moment of thick silence as the others exchanged unsure glances.

"Oh for heaven's sake," said Mina, apparently loosing patience with the reluctance of her companions. She sat back in her chair, her elbows propped on the arms, her fingers steepled. "There was an old African at the burial. A shaman, I believe. He had a fire going, and he began to chant. As he did, the sky darkened, and lightning struck your grave. There was a pulse in the air, and it began to rain. He preformed some type of ritual, and the earth - gave you up." She shrugged. "He cut his hand in the ritual, and poured a few drops of blood on the grave. I could tell that it wasn't human blood, but I don't know what it was, exactly. He said that Africa would never let you die, that the earth cherishes you."

Alan looked at her strangely, his brow raised at her practical, pragmatic overview. "Don't look at me, I'm just repeating what happened," Mina retorted, inwardly overjoyed that he was back, and apparently unaffected by his resurrection.

"Where exactly are we?" asked Alan, sitting back farther and pulling his legs under him Indian-style. He turned his head and looked straight to his right and said, "Don't even think about it, Skinner."

There was a thump as the invisible thief apparently stumbled in shock. "I wasn't gonna do nothing," he muttered, the voice moving as he returned to his seat next to Jekyll. Alan snorted ungraciously, turning his attention to Nemo, who said, "We left Nautilus, and returned to where you had lived. The house, of course, was no longer there, but there were other structures left intact."

"We're in the guesthouse," said Alan, as he remembered the building he'd thought worthless, but his first wife - Julia - had said with her gentle insistence might one day be needed.

"It appears to be so," Nemo replied.

Alan stood, walking to the window. "What day is it?" he asked absently, twitching aside the curtain to look at the sky.

"Tuesday, Tuesday the fourteenth," Jekyll answered.

"We'll have sun tomorrow," Alan said, and then he turned from the window. Lighting reflected in his eyes, but his voice was utterly calm. "We'll return to London, and report in."

"Who to?" asked Skinner, as he picked up a book and began flipping through it. The pages turned, moving of their own accord as the invisible man leafed through the novel.

Alan shrugged. "Even though our enemy was the one who brought us together, by no means did he create the League."

"How do you know this?" asked Nemo, surprised. They had all assumed the League itself to be a farce, a machination of Moriarty to simply gather those unique individuals whose . . . talents . . . he intended to steal.

Alan's face hardened, and he replied harshly, "My son was a member."

Knowing that this was a sore topic, Nemo said gently, "Moriarty did say that he was keeping the government "busy". I wonder what exactly he meant by it, and what it forebodes for us."

Mina shrugged, the movement both economic and graceful. "Whatever it is, I'm sure that someone needs to know that Moriarty was a traitor. We don't know how many of his people are still planted within the government, posing a threat to everything that occurs in their vicinity of beaurocracy."

"There was some pretty fancy lingo in there," said Tom, shaking his head.

"Women," Skinner was heard to mutter.

Alan rolled his eyes as Mina zeroed in on Skinner. "What, exactly, do you mean by that?" she asked icily.

"He meant," said Jekyll, boldly interrupting the conversation to say, "That it's time for all of us to get rest, seeing as we've a long journey back to the Nautilus and from there, London, starting tomorrow."

There was a good deal of surprise at Jekyll's uncharacteristic interruption. Alan yawned, covering his mouth, and it seemed that this was the cue for everyone to stand, mutter their assorted goodnights, and leave. Till morning, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun rose brightly with the coming of dawn. Alan stared at the first rays of golden light slowly pushing above the horizon. This was the time of day he treasured most, and had missed far too often in the time before his death, what with the League, and before that - Alan grimaced. He had known, before joining the League, that it would take his life from him. He never dedicated himself to anything without complete devotion and utter determination - the decision, for all it's haste, had not been made lightly.

But problems from before the creation of this newest section of the League had not disappeared. In fact, the threat he had been stalking was now most probably grown strong enough to resist him. He shook his head, remembering with the motion his new youth, and was shocked by it. He was still thinking like an older man - with the wisdom and experience he knew would never leave him, but he was factoring in handicaps for his age that no longer existed. He knew that now, he would be able to defeat the old threat that still menaced his beloved Africa.

Taking a last look at the sunrise, which had now spilled over and lightened the entire sky in shades of ghostly pink, vibrant orange and brilliant red, he turned from the balcony and re-entered his room. Pausing only to pull on his boots and smooth his khaki pants, pulling a white linen shirt haphazardly over his head, Alan silently made his way through the halls, passing the rooms where his friends still slept.

Moving to the lower levels, he continued to a long-closed room in the back of the house, which had been locked for years. Pulling the key from his pocket, where he had placed it after retrieving the small brass object from a discreet box in his former bedroom, he opened the door.

The harsh squeal of hinges cut off abruptly as he froze, halting the door's forward motion. He slipped through the half-open doorway, and began walking around the room carefully. He pulled the heavy drapes aside, letting the early-morning light fall into the room. The dust was thick, and he could see the faint marks he made in his passing.

This room was filled with remnants of his past - and tools of his future, he realized. Going to one locked oak chest, he felt for the hidden catch that would release the lock that was never meant to be opened with a key. A deep clicking sound signified the box's lock disengaging, and he pulled the lid open, revealing light to the items there.

For the first time in years, light shone on several pistols, throwing knives of all sizes, including a dirk, and two slim blades, each one three feet long. These were his own weapons, the tools he'd used himself before branching out his knowledge to include the African bow, spear, and blow-darts, among others.

Lifting the double half-swords reverently, he began to check the metal over, looking for signs of rust and weaknesses in the tempering that, after many years, should be showing. But the blades were pristine - and almost in better condition than when he had so carefully packed them away after his son's death. He gave a brief thought the friend who had continually come here, so long ago it seemed now, and knew that he was the reason for the good condition of the equipment in this room, despite the dust. Sanger had never been much of a one for cleaning, anyhow, Alan thought with a smile. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had been fastidious to the point of being finicky about his weapons. Alan tucked the rising grief away, burying the memory of his friend in his inspection.

Hundreds of throwing knives were mounted in a cabinet across the room, with pistols and ammunition similarly mounted and stacked in a larger cabinet directly next to it. Various spears and swords were mounted on the wall opposite these containers, the original light hue of the wood paneling and cabinets darkened with age and smeared with the dust and grime of disuse. Alan frightened several spiders as he walked the few steps to the first cabinet, his long legs swiftly eating the distance. He opened it and found that the cabinets had done their jobs well - the inside was free from any contaminants, the knives gleaming dangerously in the early-morning light. Smiling, he reached out for a regular, standard-size throwing knife, and picked it up, gently tossing it and catching it, blade to hilt, hilt to blade.

With a sudden movement, the abrupt switch from lazy hunter to dangerous predator, he twisted and threw the blade with exact precision and lightning speed. The knife whistled through the air, taking a small nick out of an in invisible ear, to hit the wood paneling with a loud _thunk_.

"Ow!" came the startled voice.

Alan said simply, "What have I told you about sneaking around me?"

"You missed," the thief replied cheekily, as he jerked the knife from where it was deeply embedded in the wall, grunting with the effort. He walked across the room and handed the knife to Alan, who simply held up the bade. A tiny smear of red marred the pristine steel, and Alan glanced from the tiny splotch of blood to the invisible man. "I didn't miss," he retorted, turning his back with a small grin as the other man sputtered in indignation.

"So, what is this place?" asked Skinner, after leaving the room and returning a sparse few minutes later with his coat.

But Alan was gone. Spinning around, the hot leather trenchcoat banging against his legs, Skinner frowned in admiration. He's been gone less than three minutes, yet Quatermain had taken - Skinner looked around. Well, there were several knives, and those two pseudo-longsword things, and maybe a spear or two - definitely a bow and quiver, missing. How the elusive hunter had managed that, Skinner for one was completely baffled.

There was nothing to do now but wait for him to show up again, and Skinner realized that he would, in time. After all, it would be nearly three hours before any of the others was ready to greet the day, and all knew that they would be heading out to the Nautilus that afternoon. This morning's planning would be essential. And after all, Alan had just returned from the dead yesterday . . . Shaking off the strangeness of that thought, Skinner settled himself to do more nosing around. This room had been pricking at his curiosity, but there were several other locked doors that still attempted to defy the thief. With an invisible grin, he cast off his coat once more and prowled slowly, silently - though not as silently as Alan, he recalled with chagrin - through the house.

Alan, meanwhile, caught his breath as he took a short break in running. It had been almost ten minutes since he had left the house, and he was a mile and three-quarters from the house. He stopped in his favorite spot, on a hill that was only just out of sight of the small village, close enough that he could concentrate without distractions, and far enough that none would find him without a search. He stretched slightly and divested himself of the two spears and swords he was carrying.

Picking up the bow and quiver, he sighted in on a tree several hundred meters away, and hoped he still remembered this art. It had been nearly two years since he had picked up this weapon, never mind using it.

The arrow flew from his grasp, and Alan frowned. His skill was admittedly rusty, but although he had hit the tree, his aim was off - too low by about a foot. He had forgotten to factor in the arc of the arrow from gravity, he realized a moment later. Though this affect was seen in shooting, it was much less due to the incredible velocity of the bullets. Chewing his lip for a moment, and remembering the half-forgotten weapon, Alan closed his eyes. Africa spoke to him, in the air around him, the vitality of the country vibrating under his feet in a rhythmic, soothing pulse. He opened his eyes, took a breath, and released the arrow.

Alan smiled. Not perfect, perhaps a few inches off his intended target, but much better. Now he was no longer in as much danger of harming his comrades as his intended prey. As he continued to practice on his aim, improving gradually, he grew aware that his senses seemed hyper-alert and much stronger than he remembered. He _knew_, before he heard, the herd of antelope travelling five hundred yards away scatter as the cheetah rampaged in their midst. He could almost smell the fragrance of small flowers through the thick grass not far from the grove toward which he was shooting. He could see the insects buzzing near the stems of the flowers. It was almost as if Africa spoke to him, showed him, and revitalized him, he thought with wonder. It was incredible.

After quickly jogging to the grove to retrieve his arrows, Alan picked up the double blades he had not used since his son's death. Hefting them, he noted that they did not feel strange in his long-fingered hands. How could they, after so many years of familiarity? But he was not completely comfortable with them, either.

Closing his eyes, he lifted the blades in front of him in a defensive posture and began to move in a pattern-dance, slowly working his way through a complex series of cuts, parries, attacks and blows, all of which his mind, rather than the muscles of his body, remembered.

He sensed someone nearby and his eyes flew open just as the blade in his left hand impacted with something.

Alan took a step back and smiled. "Nemo," he said. He glanced at the sun. "It is early to be out on the plains," he said, asking a roundabout question, and pointedly ignoring the long blade crossed with his own.

"I always rise early," Nemo commented, his gaze never leaving Alan's. "I learned from our friend Skinner that you had taken a walk, and wondered if you would like a bit of company."

Alan appraised Nemo for a moment - the man was dressed in loose-fitting crème colored robes, lacking in any type of decoration and easy to move in. He inclined his head slightly, and Nemo attacked.

The two traded a flurry of blows, each testing out the strength and speed of his opponent as they circled, looking for quirks, reactions, repeated responses to different moves. With a sudden twist, Nemo took a slash out of Alan's shirt, without touching the skin. Recognizing the vulnerability within the impressive attack, Alan carried on the sweep on the blade, sliding his own sword like a snake around Nemo's and with a gentle touch, took first blood.

The battle continued with renewed vigor, and the two were soon both nicked, blood slowly seeping from various shallow cuts. As they circled, Alan was careful to keep his back to the sun, while Nemo tried several times to switch their positions. Moving backward, Alan felt something catch at his foot, and he stumbled slightly. Nemo pressed him suddenly, and with several swift moves, Alan found himself on his back. Nemo's face, mere inches from his own, relaxed. "It was good speaking with you this morning, Mr. Quatermain," he said politely, his blade at Alan's throat.

"Indeed. A most intriguing conversation," Alan replied, moving ever so slightly. Nemo stiffened as he felt the tip of a knife prodding gently at his vulnerable abdomen. "It seems we have reached a stalemate," said Alan. "Would you like to return to the house for breakfast? The others should be awake."

"Thank you," Nemo responded with a rare smile. He stepped back and Alan rolled over and up onto his feet in one smooth motion. He fingered the holes in his shirt that were dotted with blood, and grinned. The youthful expression was something he had lost years ago, and Nemo was startled to see it. Alan probed under the cloth for the cut, waiting for the inevitable small spark of pain, but felt nothing. Confused, he rolled up his sleeve to see the skin underneath, site of the deepest bloody slash he had received. The arm was whole, as if it had never been marked. Alan frowned, and checked the other wounds, which were similarly healed.

Glancing at Nemo, who had raised a brow with surprise, he shrugged. "Perhaps Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Harker would be interested to know of this new development," Nemo suggested, carefully voicing his concern.

"Perhaps not," Alan responded, thinking hard. No more was said on the subject, although Nemo kept the incident locked firmly in the back of his mind, just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

Breakfast that morning was normal - for the members of the League who had gotten to know each other quite well in the last few months of travelling and battling evil. Anyone who had only just seen them, however, would be downright confused at their demeanors.

Skinner was a disgustingly cheerful presence that took great delight in tormenting Dr. Jekyll, whose attitude in early morning before his first cup of coffee rivaled Hyde's less-than-approachable demeanor. Tom watched the two with amusement, occasionally chiming in here and there. The more - mature - members of the league situated themselves at the other end of the table. Nemo was earnestly discussing the route, stops that would need to be made, and Mina was quiet, asking only the rare question. Alan tried to involve himself in these goings-on, but it was difficult as he felt something repeatedly dragging his attention away.

He concentrated on the route once more, bringing himself back to the conversation, to find Nemo glancing at him concernedly, Mina mirroring his gaze. "What?" asked Alan, uncomfortable under their combined stares.

"You seem a little - distracted," said Nemo, his voice carefully expressionless.

"It's nothing," Alan said, brusquely brushing off their concern.

"Oh, but it must be something to capture the attention of the great Alan Quatermain," said Mina mockingly. Her ruse failed to work, however, and she exchanged a worried glance with Nemo as Alan completely ignored her, eyes drawn once more to the window to his left, just behind Nemo.

"Excuse me," he said curtly, pushing his chair back and leaving the table abruptly.

There was a short moment of silence across the board at Alan's surprising exit.

"What was _that_ about?" asked Tom, somewhat bewildered. He pushed a thatch of blond hair back from his face, and glanced at the other faces at the table.

"Old Alan's been acting a bit off his feed lately," Skinner contributed unhelpfully. Then he frowned. "Or not so old, anymore. Bloody hell, now he's got me all turned round!"

"Wait, what do you mean by that?" asked Jekyll. His pale face was slightly pinched with worry, but his features were more relaxed now, in the face of a possible dilemma, than was his everyday wont. It was precisely because he was energized, rather than panicked, in the midst of a crisis, that he was so valuable to the League. One would expect the quiet doctor to fall to pieces in an emergency, but he had startled them all with his resilience and ability to problem solve. He was useful for more than just his counterpart, Edward Hyde.

"Well, I followed him this morning and he went into a back room with more weapons than are on Nautilus," said Skinner frankly. Nemo raised a brow at the description. "He was very - nostalgic, like, but he was on a hair-trigger like nothing I've ever seen - he was hyper-alert, and very, very fast. Like - oh hell, I don't know," Skinner cut off in frustration, hard-pressed to accurately describe the change in Alan.

"I too noticed a difference in the hunter," Nemo said softly.

"When was this?" asked Jekyll intently.

"I followed his track early this morning, and although I know he did not think to be followed, nevertheless the trail was hard to find. I came upon him, and he was practicing with an assortment of weapons, the like of which I have rarely seen. Many were African in origin." Nemo paused. "We dueled, for a short time. Simply to exercise, and I confess I was anxious to discover the extent of his surprising skills." At this point he was silent for so long that Skinner became impatient.

"Well?"

Nemo glanced at the space where the invisible man presumably was - the empty chair was rocking on its back legs, balanced precariously. "It was the most even match I have ever fenced. Had he not lost his footing a moment, it might have gone on for hours."

"Well who won?" asked the invisible man, the chair falling forward with a thump as he eagerly leant over the table.

"It was a draw."

Tom whistled, and if anyone had been able to see it, they would have made out blank shock on Skinner's face. But the astonished features of Jekyll, who had seen Nemo take on a man mutated by his formula, more than made up for the other.

"That is intriguing," muttered Mina under her breath. Her chin was propped on her fists, eyes gazing sightlessly at a wall, declining to take in the painting there, as she turned these thoughts over in her mind.

"So's that!" said Tom, pointing past her out the window.

The League members turned to see, the American being the only one who actually rushed to the glass to get a closer look.

Alan was walking out over the grass, holding only a spear. There was a tube and several poisoned darts strapped to his belt, but his stance was not that of a hunter. He was striding along, upright, without making any attempt to cloak himself from possible prey. He startled a flock of birds from a nearby stand of trees, and stopped dead, following their progress.

As soon as the birds vanished from sight, he turned and began to run. To those watching, his speed rivaled that of a cheetah, and he was gone within moments.

Nemo heaved a sigh. "Not all is well with our friend, I fear," he said gravely.

"We'd better get ready to set out, then," said Jekyll, pushing his chair from the table and rising, taking a last sip of coffee before gathering up his dishes.

"What do you mean?" asked Tom, doing likewise.

"We have no idea when Alan will return," Jekyll pointed out sensibly, lifting the pile of plates. "It will undoubtedly be before we had planned to depart, but it may be later. In any case, we should be preparing to leave."

"Aye, I'll second that," Skinner replied. The dishes at his place floated towards the door into the kitchen, and Jekyll followed. Shrugging, Tom fell into line behind Jekyll, glancing back over his shoulder. Nemo was still gazing out the window, and Mina ripped her gaze away, locking eyes momentarily with Tom. Shivering a little from the intensity of that stare, Sawyer decided that, despite Mina's allure, he would steer clear of her until she had fed.


	6. Chapter 6

Alan arrived at the village much faster than he had anticipated. An hour's hard running had gotten him further than he had supposed. This was where it was coming from, he decided. The feeling of misery and horror that was niggling in the back of his mind originated here. It wasn't his own unhappiness that he sensed, he had immediately realized. It was the mourning of the land. Africa, herself, was in pain. Her children had been stolen.

Shaking his head, bringing himself back to the here and now, Alan found himself face to face with the village shaman.

_"You have come_," the man said in his language, relief momentarily painted on his features.

__

"What has happened here?" Alan asked, not questioning how he knew this particular dialect, or how he knew that something was horribly wrong.

_"_He_ has come."_

With that vague statement, Alan's mind was flooded with images. A cruel man, his boots and musket an identical, oiled black, amid the blood of hundreds of creatures, and people. A hunter, but other than that different from Quatermain in every way. He sought the thrill of the hunt in tracking the most skilled, sentient beings he could find - in a game more dangerous and abhorrent than any other.

_"The sons of our village have been taken. Seven youths, all our best hunters. In our sleep they came, and they drugged our people and stole our hunters. They burned some of our homes, and killed the wives and children of the kidnapped ones."_

Alan took a step back in shock, and flinched as the land cried out in pain. The shaman's eyes widened.

"_You are the one,_" he breathed. _"You feel the pain of the land. Africa sings in you, speaks to you."_

Alan was silent, trying to absorb what the shaman was saying.

_"Please,_" the older man said, his voice broken with sorrow. "_Please help us._"

Alan could not refuse. _"I know this threat,_" he said simply. _"I do not know if I can bring your warriors back to you. But I can hunt this evil, and I swear on my soul that I will destroy him, or die in the attempt."_

The shaman bowed his head slightly. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "_The land cherishes you,"_ he responded in blessing. _"Africa will never let you die."_

Alan bowed his own head in return. _"My thanks, elder," _he responded. He glanced at the position of the sun and then said softly, thoughtfully, "_But never is a very long time."_

He did not see the small, gentle smile that graced the lips of the shaman, who whispered, _"May Africa guide, protect, and speed you on your way."_

Alan turned back to the old man, who had by now turned back to the village. "_My thanks,"_ he murmured. Then he turned and began to run, spurred on to greater and greater speeds in his haste. He knew this threat, and was determined that the demon that had stolen so many, including one dear to his heart, be stopped. He had never believed in vengeance, but he could hear Africa now, thrumming in his head, the heartbeat of the land demanding justice for her stolen and murdered children.


	7. Chapter 7

Alan pushed the door of the house open, wiping sweat from his face with a soaked sleeve. His entire shirt was saturated, and he was panting harshly. The house seemed to be bursting with activity, the members of the League each bringing their packs of clothing to be deposited near the door for departure.

"Oh, Alan, you're back!" said Tom.

"Good, good," interrupted Jekyll. "Nemo's been wanting for us to leave within the hour. Say, are you all right?" he asked, taking in Alan's sweat-drenched state.

"Fine. Went for a run," said Alan dismissively. "Within the hour, you said? I'll be ready." With that he strode to the stairs and was on the next level in a trice.

"That was weird," said Tom.

Jekyll shook his head. "Something happened. When he's ready, he'll tell us what it was."

Meanwhile, Alan quickly stripped and washed in a basin kept handy for such purposes. Within five minutes he was clean and dressed in fresh clothes, and had begun pulling out suitable clothing for the journey. Unknowing of the length of the trip, he rolled ten full changes of clothes, in addition to extra undergarments and two pairs of boots, and packed all snugly into his rucksack. He added several hygiene items to his pack, including soap and a straight razor, and then tested the weight. It would be tolerable for the four-hour trek to the inlet of the nearest river deep enough to harbor Nautilus.

Grasping the sack once more, he slung it over his shoulder and made his way to the door. His hand froze seconds before it connected with the knob, and the rucksack fell to the ground with a crash. Alan was not far behind.

The pain was overwhelming, a fiery, burning agony that consumed him. In the back of his mind, he heard the land wail with the torture. One of her kidnapped children had died, on alien soil. Hunted like a beast, and brought down by a burning lead ball propelled at high velocity.

Alan lay panting on the floor. The General has always been fond of his games, he thought grimly, a hand clutching his head. There was no way to stop this pain, he realized, except to stop the monster that defiled the soil of Africa by pursuing her children like animals.

He opened his eyes and got to his feet, the agony fading into a throbbing ache throughout his bones. Grateful that no one had noticed the noise in the confusion of preparation, he took a deep breath to steady himself and opened the door. His knees were a little shaky, and he used that as an excuse for his controlled stumble down the stairs. Reaching the landing, he dumped his rucksack with the others' packs, and then made his way to the armory. Not much was needed for the others, for Nemo had an impressive amount of arms stockpiled on Nautilus, but Alan wanted to recheck his stores and re-supply.

As he passed the kitchen, he stuck his head in and found Skinner and Tom debating with Mina as for what to bring with them for lunch, as it was probable that they would stop, at least for a quarter of an hour, to eat. "Water," Quatermain interjected dryly, cutting off Skinner's monologue on fine wines. "And nothing that will spoil in this heat. No meats, or suchlike," he continued, ignoring Tom's forlorn look. He closed the door, the heat of their argument only slightly muffled by the wood, and continued on with a grin.

Once in the armory, he secreted several knives about his person, strapped more poison darts to his belt and grabbed several canisters of bullets, before closing and latching the open cabinets. He was passing the windows, drawing the curtains again, when his foot impacted with something. Glancing down, he pulled the trailing edge of the draperies with their fancy needle point embroidery (work of his first wife, Julia) out of the way. Disturbed by the motion, an ancient rifle toppled over from where it had been leaning against the wall.

Alan knelt and picked up the old gun. It was rusted beyond use, covered in layers of grime and filth. Frowning, for recognition danced just out of reach, he swiped a hand over the smooth wood of the stock, once oiled to dark perfection. Now the wood was split and cracked from the weather and disuse. But the two tiny initials burned into the underside of the stock were revealed in stark relief.

_S.R._

Alan grasped the weapon tighter in surprise.

_"You do know, don't you, that I won a good deal of money on John's birth," Sanger said jokingly. "There was a pretty steep pool going on when the baby would be born, and what it would be." He laughed a little. "I won even more on your marriage to Julia. Peters and I were the only ones convinced you'd tie the knot."_

Alan placed his shot of brandy on the table, walking over to the couch where his gun was sitting. "She didn't give me much choice," he said, but the statement was softened with a gentle, genuine smile.

Sanger snorted. "Nonsense. You fell but good, my friend."

Alan turned to him, grinning. "And I can't wait until it happens to you."

His friend laughed out loud, dark eyes disappearing as his lids shut in mirth. He grinned, and raked his hand through his mahogany hair. "Nay, I have not yet hunted my last," he said simply, leaning his cleaned gun against the wall.

Alan simply raised a brow.

"Don't you smirk at me, Quatermain," Sanger retorted. "I'll have you know - "

"Master Quatermain! Master Quatermain!"

Alan turned, the smile slipping from his face at the sound of pure horror in the man's voice.

"It's the mistress - come quickly!"

Alan opened his eyes, pulling himself from the memory. Julia, five months pregnant, had experienced a bout of dizziness while descending a flight of stairs. His son John had been two at the time, and neither Julia nor their second child had survived the fall.

Pushing the painful memory away, Alan picked up the gun. Sanger, as panicked as he, had forgotten it in the haste and grief that clouded that week. He'd left for home, England, a month after Julia's burial, and the gun had escaped the notice of both men. Alan had searched for it frantically after Sanger's death, but had been unable to find it. He had never thought to search the one room it was most likely to be in. It had, after all, been locked for twenty years.

Sighing, he carried the weapon to his chest, and his fingers reached unerringly for the hidden catch. Once the lid clicked open, he gently placed the rifle in the depths of the wooden box. Then, pressing the lid closed once more, he traced his fingers gently over the rough wood.

Pulling himself away quickly, he turned and left the room, closing the door respectfully and locking it securely. He glanced at the key in his hand and quickly jogged back upstairs, carefully returning it to a small jewelry box that was one of the few mementos of his third wife, Elizabeth. He grimaced thinking about her death, and that of Laura, his second wife, whom he had loved passionately and who had been ripped from him barely a month after their wedding. He lowered his head a moment, sighing. It seemed that dark thoughts were never far from his mind now. It was his age, perhaps - an idea that made him snort as he caught sight of his reflection. In a moment's sudden inspiration, he had an inkling of what Mina Harker must feel about her own existence.

Shaking his head, he left the room and descended the stairs, not giving the room a glance as he passed it.

Skinner frowned at him from where he stood by the door. It was a sign of the hunter's distraction that he hadn't noticed the presence of the invisible man during the discovery of the old gun. Skinner wondered about it - he had been the only one there to see the suspicious shining in Alan's eyes, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what would bring such a strong man to tears.

Shrugging, the invisible man walked into the living room and pulled on his coat, swiftly spreading his white cream over his face. Vaguely visible once more, he made his way to the main foyer, where all were preparing to leave.

Tom adjusted the straps to his pack, while Jekyll, already carrying his own belongings, stood behind him. The doctor lifted the bag slightly, and Tom rotated his shoulders a bit, shifting the straps. "That's fine. Thanks."

Jekyll lowered the bag, and Skinner snorted - he woulda just dropped it onto the boy's shoulders.

Nemo was not burdened - one of the sailors from Nautilus accompanied him, and Nemo was lifting the pack to allow the man to slip his arms through the straps. The pack was small, but the two adjusted it nevertheless and the man thanked his captain.

Mina was outfitted and waiting impatiently, and Skinner wiggled into his own pack. Alan, with the ease of long practice, maneuvered his way swiftly into the straps of his rucksack.

Tom, Jekyll, Nemo and his man, and Mina trooped out to the porch. Skinner followed, and Alan came last, closing the door behind him. "Aren't you going to lock it?" asked Skinner.

Alan shook his head. "It's there if anyone needs shelter. The important rooms inside are locked, as are some of the more valuable items." He shrugged. "I'm not here to use it, why shouldn't someone who needs to?"

"Aren't you worried about thieves?" asked Skinner, still trying to understand this unusual behavior from a man born and who had lived a good space in London.

Giving him a wary look that said, _Should I be?_ Alan replied, "No."

Taking a look around, and remembering just where they were, Skinner muttered, "No, I guess ya wouldn't be, at that."

Alan moved to the head of the line and said, "Tom and Nemo, take rear." Not that any of the League needed protection, for each was deadly in his - or her - own way. It was simply instinct that he put Jekyll and Mina in the center of the line - for they were the ones with the most appearance of vulnerability.

Alan began walking, leading the group towards the river Nautilus was moored in. It was two hours, and midday, before anyone thought to question how he knew where he was going.

When asked by Mina over the midday meal of fruit and bread, he snorted. "Nautilus is a massive ship. The only river deep enough, and close enough, for her docking is ten miles west of the house."

"It was roughly a four-hour trek," Tom commented.

"We'll be there under an hour after we finish eating," stated Alan confidently.

Jekyll raised a brow, and Skinner snorted.

"Distance is distance, Alan," said Mina with a trace of irritation in her tone. "It doesn't change and takes the same amount of time to travel."

"Ah," Alan replied with a smile. "This is true."

"But?" asked Tom, a grin on his face.

Alan matched the grin with a mischievous one of his own. "But I know a shortcut."


	8. Chapter 8

"I don't get it," said Tom, when forty minutes later they approached Nautilus from almost the exact same direction they had initially departed.

"How in bloody blazes does he _do_ that?" Skinner asked, muttering under his breath.

"I have no idea," responded Mina, more than a little irritation in her voice.

"Come," indicated Jekyll, motioning that the four should move towards the massive silver ship. Alan glanced behind him as he moved toward the ramp.

Nemo called out to the men on the ship in his own language, and the ramp opened up. The group, united once more in a way that they hadn't been since before Venice, entered the colossal submarine. Alan noticed several of the men giving him wary, almost frightened glances, but resolved to say nothing. Nemo's sharp eyes did not miss the situation, however, and he determined to have a talk with his crew. Soon.

After resting for a half-hour, the group convened in the dining room as the crew continued to make headway toward the Atlantic.

"We should make course for England," said Alan, throwing the idea out there.

"Why?" Skinner demanded, replacing some of the knicknacks he had been fiddling with onto the shelf.

Alan stared at him for a moment and said, "Moriarty's work isn't done."

"But he's dead. Cut the head off a snake and the body will die," pointed out Jekyll reasonably.

"We're not dealing with a snake. We never were," said Alan impatiently, standing and beginning to pace in his frustration. "A hydra - who grows two new heads for every one chopped off. That's what form evil takes."

There was silence for a moment. Alan sighed, feeling weariness from the transition from African waters to the sea. "We've reached the Atlantic," he said.

_"_Captain?" came a voice from the doorway. The speaker was one of Nemo's crew. "We've just left the last of the shore and are heading to open water."

"Submerge," Nemo gave the order decisively as they others glanced, surprised, at Alan. "I will have a course heading for you momentarily."

"Very good, Captain," the man responded, bowing slightly before turning smartly and exiting the room.

"We were called together to form a League," said Mina slowly.

"Well, we know what a farce that turned out to be," said Skinner snidely.

"No, I don't," said Nemo, thinking deeply. "We were thrown together in pursuit of a false mission, used and betrayed by a traitor in our very midst, and yet together, we triumphed, did we not? Our enemy created us, hoping our differences would divide our loyalties, and yet we became stronger for it, and he ended up creating his own destruction. We are a unit, a family, of sorts," he said softly. "And I think we are stronger than even we can know, together."

There was a long silence.

"So, what now?" asked Tom, subdued and moved by Nemo's words.

"I don't know about you, but I was having fun," said Skinner, relenting. "What say we give this League thing another go, eh?"

"I would agree," said Nemo.

"As would I," returned Jekyll softly.

"Indeed," Mina contributed. "We have managed to do much good."

Alan nodded to the eyes turned in his direction.

Tom grinned. "What're we waiting for?"

With renewed spirits, the group agreed to turn Nautilus toward England. It would take only three days to get there, given the speed of Nautilus and the straightforward manner of the journey.

The three days of travel, both above and under the sea, were good for the self-appointed League. They became more closely acquainted with each other, coming to terms with the stressful experiences of Antarctica, the defeat of Moriarty, and Alan's subsequent death and revival. During the mission they had learned to trust one another with their lives. Now all, even the reluctant Skinner, were learning to trust one another with their feelings and affections. They had learned to guard one another's backs, and now discovered how to guard one another's spirits. New bonds were forged, existing ones strengthened.

Yet Alan was both more and less than before. More considerate, less judgmental. Yet no less outspoken and assertive, and no more tolerant of shortcomings and unknown factors - most especially, the group discovered, within himself.

It was at dinner on the second day that the seriousness of the situation asserted itself, and the rest of the League discovered something more that Alan had been gifted with after his resurrection.

Nemo was talking with Alan, Skinner and Jekyll when he noticed Quatermain's face drain of all color. The man was pale as a sheet, and his hands shook as he replaced his cutlery next to his almost-untouched meal. Nemo, staring at Alan, barely noted that the others were also focusing their attention on him, after the Captain had trailed off in mid-sentence, distracted by his friend's obvious distress.

"Q?" asked Skinner, of all people, his voice surprisingly gentle and kind. "What's wrong, old man?"

Alan didn't respond, pushing his chair back. His entire body was shaking, trembling as if beset by a storm, his hands mercilessly clenching the side of the table. His pupils had expanded, the black emphasized by the thin ring of blue that was barely discernable. Sweat glistened on his face and forehead, his hair damp.

All were now staring at the hunter in alarmed silence, afraid to do anything that would shatter his tenuous control over whatever was happening to him.

"Alan?" asked Jekyll, carefully moving to be by the other's side. He reached out a hand and laid it on the other's shoulder. Alan flinched and pulled away. Jekyll visibly recoiled, shocked by the easygoing, accepting man's pained reaction. "Alan?" he tried again.

The hunter's shaking increased, yet he made as if to move, and froze in response. "There are five of them, in a cage, far from home. Seven arrived, and five are left. They were taken in the night. Their families murdered. They were subdued - unharmed - made to watch as their wives and children were killed in front of them." Alan's blue eyes were staring inward, his shaking, hoarse voice relating horror none of the League were prepared for.

"_He_ is coming. They know it. Each day he has taken one of them, and loosed him in the wild. Today he made them wait until nightfall, until the darkness came to cover his actions. He craves the challenge. They have heard the noise of the hounds, and when the others didn't come back, they knew. He lives for the challenge, lives for the hunt. They can see it in his eyes. They are hunters themselves, and they know a predator when they see one."

Alan took a deep, shaking breath, and for a moment, the shaking stopped. He shut his eyes in pain. "His name is Masvito, and he knows it is his night. Kufo was taken the first morning, and Nhamo the second. Chipo, Wataou, Ambuya and Vasati are with him, and he steps forward when the cage door is opened. His spirit has not been crushed by captivity. _He will never bow_," Alan snarled, his visage twisted in fury and pain.

The hunter gasped, clutching the side of his chest. "He has been running and hiding for hours now. The dogs were loosed, and he ran them a false trail before killing the leader of the pack. _He_ was not happy when he found Masvito's victory - the dead beast strung up from the lowest branches of a tree.

"But now he has nowhere to go. _He_ is on the trail, and has shot Masvito. Masvito can feel the wound pouring his lifeblood, and - arrrgh!"

Alan twisted in obvious agony, slamming back into his chair, pressing a hand hard to the right side of his chest. "_He is coming,_" Alan gasped, lapsing into the tongue of the natives. "_Fight! Fight him!"_

The images and sound rushed into his head, jumbling into a cacophony of violence and noise, blood and darkness. There was an overwhelming pain, agony ripping through him and Alan gave voice to Masvito's scream as life was torn from his body. Blackness swirled through him, fading in and out.

The pain receded. Alan opened his eyes, and found the other members of the League staring at him, looks of deep concern etched onto their features. "He's dead," said Alan, his voice a dull monotone.

The hunter tried to rise from his chair, but his legs folded and he collapsed back into the cushioning, slumping backward.

"What the hell just happened?" asked Tom.

Nemo gave the younger man a glare, which he didn't even see.

"Four nights ago, a man entered Africa, and came to a tribe that lives two miles from the house where we stayed." Alan's voice was rough, his body shaking now in reaction. "He plundered and stole - not goods, as you would suspect, but people. Not for slavery. To hunt." The hunter sounded singularly disgusted. "The thrill of the chase, for this man, is to stalk the most intelligent creatures he can find. Long ago he graduated from the hunting of regular men, to the preying on other hunters like himself. I believe he is searching for the ultimate challenge - one as skilled as himself, who will kill him, or come close to it. He lives for nothing but the hunt." The revulsion on the faces around him was clear, shock and pure abhorrence vying for supremacy.

"Do you know who he is?"

"I have everything but solid proof," Alan replied, running a hand down his face in answer to Jekyll's question.

"What was that?" asked Tom, concerned and unnerved. Alan smiled, the expression bitter.

"_Africa sings,_" he responded.

"What?"

Alan repeated himself, in English. "It appears that Africa revived me for a reason. I feel - so different. So many things. I know the land, its creatures. I feel the pain of the land, when it cries out from the pain of its children. It's like an echo, passing through every living being. I _feel_ it. I know things I've never known before." He shook his head, a little frightened. "We need to get to England."

"What can we do there? It seems to me that you need to go searching for this hunter," said Mina.

"Yes," said Alan. His trembling had slowly ceased. "But there are people I need to talk to, information I need. And this feud - could be very, very personal."

"Who do you think can help us?"

"For starters, Martin St. Lawrence. The man who was head of the League when I knew them fifteen years ago. He would be able to help us, and I have every reason to think he would bend over backwards to assist us in catching this particular hunter."

"Why is that?" Jekyll was only curious, Alan knew. But voicing the answer to that question left a wound that ached to the very bone.

"Because Martin was, at one time, very fond of my son. And if this man is who I think he is, he is responsible for my son's murder."

The quiet statement rocked the entire room. Alan, by choice, never revealed much of his past to anyone. There had never seemed much point, and the few people who did get close were never close for long. But the League had a right to know, if they were going after this villain, that Alan was more emotionally involved than even he had been aware of. Tied to Africa, and thus to the hunters who were being killed, gave him another bond as great as the death of his son, to this matter.

The chiming of a clock broke the silence. It was nine. "I believe it is past time we all retired," stated Nemo quietly, with all the finesse of a host who was responsible for the comfort of his guests. Alan nodded tiredly.

Jekyll, still concerned, offered the hunter a hand. Since his return to youth, Alan had been possessed of all the vitality of his apparent age. That was gone now, and he moved like a man of a hundred. The strain and stress were wearing on him, and Jekyll could only hope that this Martin St. Lawrence had answers.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sweet Jesus," the light, tenor voice whispered in shock. "John?" The man's piercing green eyes were wide with surprise, his red hair short and streaked with strands of white. He was tall, angular, and aristocratic, his good manners and breeding apparent, even in his open-mouthed surprise.

"Not quite." Alan forced a smile, glancing at the man who was standing above them on a staircase. "Remember Panama, summer of '72?" he asked.

"What - _Alan_?" Martin's eyes almost bulged out of his head.

"Yes."

"This - this is - extraordinary-"

"Exactly. I've come to talk to you about the League, Martin," said Alan, climbing the lushly carpeted stairs.

"You know I can't - who's that with you?" Martin's face was a mixture of surprise, shock, and annoyance.

"Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Dr. Edward Jekyll, sans Mr. Hyde for the moment, Dr. Wilhamina Harker, Captain Nemo, Tom Sawyer, and the elusive Mr. Skinner. We are - in a League of our own, if you will." Alan smiled slightly, knowing that Martin would understand his meaning.

"But that's not possible - I mean how - no one could have without - I would have known if - but this is not - I just don't believe that - Alan, _how_?"

Alan smiled, pushing open the door to Martin's study and gesturing inside as the rest of the League followed him. "Shall we discuss this in its proper place, Martin?" _Behind closed doors?_ was what Alan was really asking.

"Of course." Martin put on a stiff smile. "Where are my manners. Follow me, please."

Martin St. Lawrence led the League into his study, and a book pulled from the bookshelf revealed a passageway hidden behind the wall.

"Well, isn't that familiar?" Skinner asked, to no one but himself.

Once they had reached an underground chamber and were secured behind rock walls and doors of solid oak, seated with little ado, Martin began.

"Alan, what the bloody hell are you doing here? And if you don't mind my asking, you're looking mighty fit for a man your age."

Alan smiled a little, the expression grim. Without any preamble, he strode into the account of their most recent adventures. From their gathering as a part of the League to the realization of the purpose behind their summons, Martin relaxed and calmly accepted the story. With the revelation of Moriarty's involvement, however, he sat up straight, a grim cast on his features.

At the conclusion of Alan's tale - a good hour after it's beginning - Martin sat back in his chair, his thoughtful gaze fixed upon the wall opposite him, over Alan's head. "An interesting tale. Moriarty led you to believe that he was 'keeping the government busy', as you so aptly put it?"

Alan nodded, taking a drink from a glass of water at his side.

"I don't like the implications of that . . . "

"Nor do we," replied Tom.

Martin glanced at him closely. "Am I to take it that the American Central Intelligence Agency has a distinct wish to put these . . . difficulties to rest?"

"I've been . . . advised to join the League," Tom said, and Alan raised a brow. Ordered was probably more like it. "My superiors would like to permanently extend my services to you as a gesture of goodwill and cooperation between the protective forces of our countries."

Alan was surprised - he had most definitely not suspected Tom for a diplomat, yet the boy continued to shock.

"Thank you," replied Martin, giving the offer all the consideration and respect it demanded. "I would be most glad to accept you into the League." He glanced around at all the others in the room. "The offer extends to the rest of you as well," he said. "I'll admit that we are a bit short, due to the fact that we can no longer trust anyone even remotely associated with Moriarty - and that rules out a good few of our newest members."

"Well, I'm in," said Skinner immediately, surprising the rest of the group. At the somewhat shocked expressions, his white-painted face morphed into a smile. "It's been a wild ride, and more than a bit of fun. How else can I blow things up on a grand scale without all the fuss'n'muss afterward?"

Alan had no answer, and apparently neither did anyone else.

After a few moments of silence, Jekyll said simply, "I will join."

Mina smiled. "Quite an intrepid move, Doctor. Would you mind some company?" Jekyll shook his head, and Mina continued, "I think it would be interesting, for a time at least. I offer my skills. And you, Captain?"

Nemo was silent for a moment, thinking. "This has been a different time in my life, in which I have experienced teamwork and friendship. That should not be so swiftly disregarded. I, too, will join."

All eyes now turned to the revitalized hunter sitting directly opposite Martin. There were several moments of silence.

"I cannot, at this time." Shock reverberated around the room - to have led them this far, and now abandonded them? The other League members were surprised, and Martin too was perturbed.

"Why, Alan? Why come at all if not to join us?" Martin finally asked, his curiosity getting the better of him and causing him to break the shocked silence hanging over the group.

The hunter sat forward, making eye contact with each person in turn. "I am not as I was," he freely admitted, before sitting back and looking Martin straight in the eye. "Martin, I know you are the soul of curiosity, and yet your manners have held you back from asking the obvious questions. So I will answer them for you.

"I was killed in the fight against Moriarty. My friends were kind enough to bury me in my beloved Africa. Africa, however, was not content to let me stay dead. I was brought back to life, to be a protector of the land. I am connected to it, in every bone and fiber of my being.

"Now, there is a threat to Africa. There is a man, who steals the people from the land and hunts them brutally like animals. I must bring him to justice, to protect the people and the land. Not only does Africa demand this of me, but I demand this of myself, and I believe that John does, too." Alan glanced at Martin, whose eyes grew wide at the mention of his friend's long-dead son.

"You can't possibly mean-"

"The General has resurfaced once more, Martin."

The red-haired man swore, pushing himself from the chair to pace. "Are you sure you cannot join us, Alan?" he asked abruptly, turning toward the hunter.

Alan snorted, taking another sip of water. "I know you allow your members a lot of freedom, Martin, in ways of methods and time. Yet I do not know my limits with this new connection to the land, and I do know that if there is a threat to Africa then that must supercede all my other priorities. Can you deal with an agent who may be forced to abandon a mission mid-stride in order to take care of a problem that may exist entirely across the globe?"

"Surely this is not so serious a situation as all that," Martin objected.

Alan frowned. "It is more serious than you can imagine," he returned.

"How so?" Martin paced, anxiously demanding an answer. After hearing of their exploits, he had no doubt that Sawyer would be a competent leader for this group, and yet Alan was invaluable for his skills and leadership qualities. And now, all that experience with a much younger body - the man had a whole other life ahead of him, and would be an indispensable addition to the League.

"Martin, I _cannot_ ignore the calling of Africa." Quatermain's voice was like ice. "I experience the deaths of each of the men killed by the General. I see them die, and I feel their agony. I feel what Africa feels - and the land is more than aware of the sufferings of her people."

Astounded, Martin stared at Alan. "But if we could accept it, make allowances for your - your connection, and your duty to Africa, would you join then?"

Alan thought for a moment, dark brows drawn down over his eyes. He was turning options, pros and cons, over in his head. "Yes," he said finally. "If you were able to make the concessions for whatever I felt I needed to do in my duties to Africa, I would join."

"Consider it done," said Martin abruptly, continuing to pace. "Is this new situation acceptable to all?"

Looking around, and neither hearing nor seeing any obvious disapproval, Martin continued. "Right, then. Your first task, to be undertaken immediately, is the elimination of General Zaroff."

(Ok, this is not actually an update, just a quick next-day editing brought on by a wonderful review from FUNYUN, whose enthusiasm - along with the insistence of ffnet to ignore any notations of mine that denote plot switches - inspired me to tread into the realm of (yikes, iee!) chapters. gulp. I've had issues with them before, and don't like 'em. So this is not an actual update, just a re-working of the format for more reader-friendliness. Thanks FUNYUN!!)


	10. Chapter 10

Alan stared at Martin. "Just like that?" he asked, seemingly unable to accept the swiftness of the decision. "Don't you have superiors to report to?"

"Yes," said Martin dismissively. "But Zaroff has been on our lists for years. After Rainsford, we-" he broke off abruptly, noting the look on Alan's face.

"Rainsford?" asked Alan tightly. "As in, Sanger Rainsford?" His azure eyes had darkened to steel gray, a sure sign of suppressed emotion.

"Yes," said Martin, understanding beginning to dawn. And with it, compassion. "Didn't you know?"

"He told me he wouldn't be giving up the hunt," Alan replied, his face a mask, hands clenching the arms of his chair. The other member of the League stared at him.

"Sanger Rainsford?" asked Mina. "He was a famous hunter, was he not? Reportedly lost at sea when his ship, returning from a hunt in the Amazon, capsized off an island reef in the South Atlantic? I remember reading in the paper, some thirty-five years ago or so . . ."

"He didn't drown," Alan answered. His eyes went to Martin. "He was too good a swimmer, even in the dark and a storm." His suspicions were now confirmed. "Zaroff caught him when he made land, didn't he?"

Martin sighed, moving to stand behind the chair, bracing himself of the back. "We sent him in," he responded. "He joined the League not long before Julia's death, Alan. He was going to tell you, but the accident -"

"I know why he didn't," said Alan tersely. "Get to the point."

Martin glanced at the tension that was apparent in Quatermain's posture, and softened his voice. "He was sent in, on infiltration. He survived - longer than anyone thought he would. He almost escaped, as well - and came so close to killing the General. But we lost contact with him, and the next thing we knew his body was sighted on the shore. We had to sneak in at night, a week later, to retrieve it."

Alan clenched his jaw, sick to his stomach.

Martin tugged at the sleeves of his cream-colored suit jacket, settling it more comfortably across his shoulders. Alan recognized the slight gesture as one Martin adopted when stressed, and made a visible effort to calm himself.

"I - I didn't notify you until we - until we were certain," said Martin, licking his lips to bring moisture into his parched mouth. "You were his next-of-kin, legally - and after Julia -"

"Stop apologizing for something you had no control over," Alan replied, his voice weary.

There was a moment of silence before Jekyll, with his calm proficiency, entered the conversation, diverting the subject to less immediately painful matters. "Where is Zaroff now?"

Martin's green eyes snapped to focus in on him for a moment, before he too relaxed slightly. Pulling aside a curtain hanging from the ceiling, he revealed a current map of the globe. "Here," he said simply, pointing to a small island located to the east of the tip of Africa.

Nemo frowned, standing and walking to the map. He lightly placed a finger on Africa, attempting to approximate the location of the village.

"The hunters were kidnapped from this area, were they not, Mr. Quatermain?"

"Slightly to the north and west of where your finger is, but yes, that's roughly the location of the village."

"I think I see what the Cap's after," interjected Skinner, moving forward to the map as well. "How in bloody blazes does he travel all that distance in scarcely two days?" The invisible man turned to St. Lawrence, who shrugged.

"There isn't much detailed information on Zaroff, outside of his continued existence and rather gruesome practices." Martin's face twisted in disgust.

Skinner snorted. "I don't think much o' your spies," he informed the man.

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" murmured Martin wryly, glancing at the space where Skinner's feet should be visible below the hem of his coat.

Mina stood as well. "Is it possible that he has some type of craft or vehicle that could so swiftly travel the distance?" She glanced at Nemo.

"Nautilus could make the journey in under a day," he responded immediately. "The length of time needed to travel so many miles suggests a lesser level of technology, yet what he clearly does possess is more advanced than the equipment currently available."

"There's no chance he cobbled something together himself?" Tom jumped into the conversation. "Made whatever he couldn't buy?"

"It's possible, but unlikely," said Alan, also standing. He took another drink from the half-empty glass. "His only love is for the hunt. There is, quite literally, nothing else that he feels passion for. And yet - it is impossible to hunt constantly, and he is possessed of a brilliant mind. Lord knows what he does to keep occupied once his - prey - runs out for a time."

Jekyll winced. Alan's face was unyielding, a grim mask of death that even Mina turned from.

"Therefore, we must assume the worst," said Martin.

Skinner raised an invisible brow. "And I thank ye for that burst of cheer," he commented acerbically.

"Mr. St. Lawrence has a valid point," Mina responded, ignoring Skinner's frosty tone. "We have only a vague idea of what exactly we're getting ourselves into. I am confident that Nemo can rival any technology he possesses, however, there is still a large factor of unknown that we must account for."

Nemo inclined his head at the compliment, and Mina's answering smile was a soft acknowledgement of his acceptance.

"Truly, I only think to prepare you," Martin's voice was low.

"What do you know that you have not already told us?" Nemo asked.

"Nothing," Martin sighed. "All I know is what I've told you. This location is where he's currently reported to be holed up."

Alan nodded decisively. "That's where we'll start, then." He looked around the group, and the nods of his companions confirmed their agreement.

"Captain, if you will?" Alan asked, gesturing for Nemo to precede him. The man was the first to leave the room, and Alan the last. St. Lawrence watched them go, and despite the seriousness of their first mission, he was heartened in seeing how well the group worked together, how they protected and shielded one another from harm.


End file.
